


i don't mind you under my skin

by RoseAlenko



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Because we all want to know what Pod is working with right???, F/M, Porn with minimal Plot, Show!Verse, Smut, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, mentions of past rape/non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-14 00:49:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13582500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseAlenko/pseuds/RoseAlenko
Summary: Weary of war and exhausted by politics, Sansa finds solace in an unlikely place.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something I threw together for a tumblr prompt I was sent--"Can I hold your hand?" for Sansa/Podrick. This is unbeta'd, and I've never written for this pairing or even written Sansa so I hope it's okay!

_You won’t find Father down there, you know_.

Sansa frowns at the statue of her father, chewing over her sister’s words from earlier that day. Arya had caught her stealing away to the crypts after supper–a habit she now indulges with growing frequency–and attempted to deter her with the blunt, almost cold declaration.

“I know that,” Sansa had insisted, a bit wary. Arya’s detached attitude is peculiar to say the least; but then, Sansa has changed, too. Everything has. 

Winterfell isn’t the safe haven of her childhood, not anymore. It is almost unrecognizable after the rounds of destruction and repair, with new defenses on its perimeter and new faces housed under its roof. It is an entirely different place without her mother and father, without the sound of Rickon’s laughter and the glow of Robb’s smile.

But for everything they have lost, there is something new to try and fill its place–stronger and higher battlements to the Northeast, unfamiliar lords and ladies populating the halls, and new responsibilities on Sansa’s shoulders.

So while she knows better than anyone that her father’s spirit isn’t waiting to greet her in the solitude of the crypts, Sansa retreats there anyway for a rare respite from the clamor of the court and the obtruding eyes of its people.

Down here it is dark and damp, and a few years ago she would have been frightened by such a macabre setting. Now, it is the only place where Sansa can find some peace and quiet, where she can be alone without any weapon shipments to approve or Winter rations to calculate.

Even after all she has been through, though, standing before Father’s statue–however poor the likeness–sometimes erodes at her resolve.

 _I miss you so much. Winterfell needs you more than ever._ I  _need you._

She cannot help but wonder what the great Lord Eddard Stark would think of her now, ruling in his stead as Lady of Winterfell. She had never been groomed for it. She was meant to be the wife of some high lord, raising his children and keeping his household. Father had wanted that for her.

 _When you’re old enough_ , he’d vowed,  _I’ll make you a match with someone who’s worthy of you. Someone who’s brave, gentle, and strong_. Sansa cannot imagine such a future anymore. She had once dreamt of finding that man, a valiant knight like someone from the songs, who would whisk her away from the dull North to a fantastic life full of passion and adventure. 

Now her dreams are replaced with nightmares that are all-too-real, and she hopes only for the strength to keep four walls around Jon’s subjects for one more day, to keep food in their stores and wood in their fires. It affords her a new respect for Father, learning all that he had managed every single day.

 _The pack survives_ , he had said to them once. Sound advice. Without Arya and Bran, Sansa doesn’t want to imagine what might have become of her with Jon away in the South and Baelish circling her like a shadowcat stalking its prey.

But their pack is smaller than before, and she finds that even during her busiest days, she is as lonely as she has ever been.

She gazes steadily at Father’s statue, trying to fill in the sculptor’s gaps with her own memory, to visualize the lines of his face. He had often been a dour man, her lord father. But his grim expression had easily given way to smiles and laughter, an exuberant sort of joy he reserved just for his family. There is nothing in the world that Sansa wouldn’t give just to see him again, chuckling behind his hand when Arya arrives late and caked in mud to a feast. Nothing she wouldn’t trade for the simple pleasure of letting her mother brush her hair at the vanity in her old room.

It is only when her vision goes blurry before her, the light from the torches distorting into a fuzzy, orange glow, that she realizes she is crying. It seems senseless to weep for them now, after all that has happened. But she was never allowed to mourn them properly, and it is more trying than she imagined, being back in her home–their home–without them in it.

Sansa removes her leather gloves with a sigh. Tucking them away in her cloak, she raises her fingers to swipe the tears from her eyes, collecting herself. She ought to be getting back soon, and as lady of her house, the last thing she needs is to show weakness to the dissenting lords.

Before she can make her exit she hears approaching footsteps, the padding of boots on the moist earth echoing throughout the dark chambers. A figure heads toward her from the hall at her right, bearing a torch that casts bobbing shadows against the walls and ceiling with every step.

Her chest clenches with panic at the sight. The appeal of the crypts has always been their distinct  _lack_ of people who might intrude on her introspection, and Sansa is wholly unprepared to be observed in the act of weeping and hiding when she should be overseeing the castle.

As the visitor draws near, Sansa recognizes him as Brienne’s squire, Podrick Payne. Of all the inhabitants of the castle who might come calling, Podrick is perhaps the least threatening. But that does nothing to temper her frustration at being interrupted in such a state, and by the time he steps up alongside her before the statue, she’s bristling with anger.

“My Lady,” he greets her, his voice soft and hesitant. He walks a bit bow-legged, no doubt the result of riding on horseback day and night on the journey home from King’s Landing. There are still snow flurries melting in his dark hair, as if he’s come straight from the saddle to her side.

“I see you’ve had a safe journey,” Sansa observes dryly, looking away so that Podrick might not see her tear-stained cheeks, the red in her eyes.

“Ah. Um, yes, My Lady. Lady Brienne sent me to notify you that we’ve returned.”

“Good,” Sansa replies, sniffing and clearing her throat. “And what of my brother and Daenerys Targaryen?”

Pod shakes his head and shrugs.

“I don’t know, My Lady. If they haven’t arrived then I suppose they delayed before their sea voyage.”

She frowns. More bad news. The sooner Jon returns the sooner he can resume his duties as king, and the sooner they can both formulate a plan for facing the threat marching their way from the North.

“Very well,” she nods in Podrick’s direction. “Thank you.”

She says it with the sort of finality that ends a conversation, hoping that Podrick can take a hint and leave her with her dignity still intact. But he doesn’t budge, and Sansa can feel his eyes on her, peering closely through the faint light of the torches.

“Lady Sansa,” he murmurs, daring a step closer. “Are you well?”

“Of course,” she snaps, still tilting her face away from his prying eyes. “You can go, Podrick.”

“You’re crying, My Lady. Is everything alright? Do you need–”

Sansa wheels on him, blinking back stinging tears as her patience snaps like a banner in the wind.

“Seven hells, Podrick, can you please just leave me alone? Go!”

He winces like a beaten dog at that, but still finds the courtesy for a perfunctory bow before taking his leave.

A sharp jab of guilt threatens Sansa then, as Podrick turns and strides away with so much haste that she has to double-take to be sure he isn’t running. After all, it isn’t his fault her family is gone. He isn’t to blame for her years of repressed grief and loneliness. She cannot fault him for trying to do what he was told, as he always does. And Podrick is a decent, even kind man, truthfully.

Sansa’s mind wanders back to a night in the Red Keep long ago, when Podrick had heard her crying after Mother and Robb were killed. He appeared unexpectedly at her chamber door bearing a tray of fresh lemon cakes and a flagon of sweet plum wine. When she had asked if Tyrion had sent him, Podrick had confirmed that yes, it was her lord husband who had ordered him there. But the following morning, when Sansa had thanked Tyrion for the kind gesture, he hadn’t known what she was talking about. It had been Podrick’s own doing all along.

And then there was the day that Brienne had come to her aid when she and Theon had faced a grisly fate at the mercy of Ramsay’s hounds. Podrick had been there, too, fighting–albeit clumsily–to protect her. And when she had forgotten the words to swear Brienne into her service, he was standing by, ready to come to her rescue again.

So the sight of his forlorn, retreating form tugs at her heart, and Sansa calls out to stop him.

“Podrick, wait. Wait. Please.”

He stops short, turns back, and even at this distance she can see the hope and relief on his innocent young face.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa announces, eager to fill the silence, offering him a watery half-smile. “That was unworthy of me.”

“It’s alright,” Podrick assures her, making his way back through the darkened hall. “You’re upset.”

Yes, Sansa muses to herself. And why must that be so shameful? She wears strength like a coat of armor but it gets heavy after particularly rough days, and sometimes she longs to shrug free of it. Podrick seems as safe a soul as any to bare her heart to.

“I am,” she agrees. “I miss them.” She gestures to the crypts around her, the resting place of the bones of her father and little brother, the ghostly memory of her mother, of Robb.

“And it’s hard,” she continues, her voice quavering on the edge of a sob. “To carry on as if nothing has happened. To pretend that I’m strong like Mother was, or a leader like Jon.”

“Begging your pardon, My Lady, but you are,” Podrick interjects.

She scoffs, casting him a dubious glance.

“I’m not,” she argues, shaking her head. “You don’t need to say that just to be kind.”

“That’s not it,” Podrick says with conviction. “When Lady Brienne and I were camped outside of Winterfell before you escaped, watching out for your signal, we were there for months. And we heard things. What he  _did_ to people. The kind of man he was,” he explains, pausing to assess Sansa’s darkening expression carefully. “To go through that as you did, to endure it and escape … You might not be a warrior like Lady Brienne, but you’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met.”

The corners of her lips tug up in earnest at Podrick’s sweet words, even if they are just flattery. But Sansa suspects that shallow compliments are not really his style. He is too sincere, too polite, too wholly good to be so superficial. She feels her throat constricting with emotion, overwhelmed with gratitude for him in that moment; for his tactful omission of Ramsay’s name, for taking the time to lift her spirits even after she had just scolded him like a unruly servant.

“Thank you, Podrick,” she whispers.

“It’s only the truth, Lady Sansa,” he presses on, emboldened by her smile. “And His Grace will be very proud of how well you’ve done when he returns. Lord Tyrion always used to gripe about how hard it can be to placate all of those nobles at court, but you’ve done it so well that many of them want you for their  _queen_.”

“Oh, yes,” Sansa agrees sarcastically. “Jon will be thrilled to know I’m trying to take his place in his absence.”

“But you haven’t,” Podrick protests. “You’re loyal.”

Sansa turns to face him properly now, stunned by his praise. It is comforting and fortifying at the same time, hearing someone support and validate her this way–honestly and without agenda.

“I don’t know what to say.”

Podrick fidgets under her stare, rubbing his free hand at the back of his neck bashfully.

“I - It’s nothing, My Lady,” he stammers. “I just wanted you to know that you shouldn’t doubt yourself. It’s my pleasure to serve under you.”

Inexplicably, Podrick's words summon lewd thoughts to her mind-thoughts of the young squire _under_ her in a most literal sense, the two of them together finding pleasure of a different sort. Sansa's first instinct is a thorough self-scolding for such an unseemly and unladylike response. But the shame quickly gives ways to curiosity, and Sansa cocks her head thoughtfully to the side.

"Your _pleasure_ ," she repeats, arching a brow. "To serve _under_ me?"

No sooner do the words leave her lips than Podrick’s face colors redder than the crimson of his gambeson, and Sansa cannot hold back her snort of amusement at his mortified expression. It is the first time in, well, she doesn't know how long, that she's allowed herself to jest and to laugh. It feels natural, relieving.

“Or - I mean, I’m proud to squire for someone in your service,” Podrick corrects himself firmly.

“The honor is mine,” Sansa replies. She is rewarded with a beaming grin from Podrick. A nice grin, she decides. One that warms her from top to toe.

“We’d best get back upstairs for the evening,” she suggests. 

Podrick nods quickly, and she collects her torch from the sconce on the wall before heading back toward the entrance.

Sansa stays near at his side as they walk along. Carrying the torch in her left hand, her right dangles close upon his, and every now and again his knuckles brush the backside of her palm. She half expects the jumpy and unfailingly proper Podrick to flinch away and put a more appropriate distance between them.

Instead she feels him wiggling his fingers reflexively, and he clears his throat into the quiet, preparing to speak.

“Can I hold your hand, My Lady?” he asks, his voice unusually high and strained, as though the words are a great burden he’s struggling to lift.

Sansa is taken aback at the strange question. She can’t recall anyone ever asking her permission for such a thing before. Yet the trauma of Ramsay’s abuse casts a pall over her still, and even now–over a year later–she isn’t especially fond of being touched. Podrick is one of the few people aware of what she suffered, and it occurs to her that he is trying to be considerate of that, even as he–

What  _is_ he doing?

Taking pity on her? Comforting her?  _Flirting with her?_

Sansa doesn’t know, but reasons that it doesn’t much matter. The thought of holding Podrick’s hand is unaccountably appealing, so she gives him her answer by slipping her palm around to his and taking his hand. He trembles with the barest hint of a shiver at her touch, but his skin is warm and pleasant, and she can feel the rough calluses on his palm from hours of unforgiving practice at swordplay.

Podrick laces his fingers through hers and grips her hand a little tighter, the pulse in his wrist pounding out a nervous beat against her own. She chances a peek in his direction, only to find him already looking her way. The instant their eyes meet Sansa drops her gaze, blood racing to her cheeks. It is foolish, childish even, to be flustered by something so insignificant. She can feel her heart pounding so hard she is sure even Podrick can hear it.

"It's just - I hoped to offer you comfort, My Lady," he offers to fill the silence. 

"I . . . am grateful for your company, Podrick."

And it isn't just an empty sentiment. She  _is_ grateful for Podrick's presence at her side, and sneaking another glance at him out of the corner of her eye, it is as though she really  _notices_ him for the first time. It's not that Podrick is exceptionally handsome. He doesn’t have the fine features or roguish confidence she used to admire in young men like Loras Tyrell. But there is a comeliness in his brown eyes that charms her. He is barely taller than she, but what he lacks in height he makes up for with the broadness of his shoulders, the thickness of his strong arms. And the longer Sansa peers at him, the more she fancies the soft look of his lips.

As a girl she had ignored him almost entirely, measured him nothing more than a silly boy who happened to share a name with that vile, leering Ser Ilyn. But walking hand-in-hand with Podrick now, there is a giddy flutter in her belly, a tingle where their fingers are clasped.

When they emerge from the crypts she releases his hand quickly lest someone should see them. With the light of the moon and the many torches illuminating Winterfell’s yard, it all seems a bit award now.

“Will you be alright?” Podrick asks timidly.

“I’m much better now, yes,” Sansa assures him. “Thank you.”

“Good evening, Lady Sansa,” he says, dipping forward into a parting bow.

“You as well, Podrick.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

For the rest of the night, Sansa doesn’t once feel lonely or anxious. Lying awake into the small hours, her busy thoughts have nothing to do with quarreling nobles or shortages of grain.

She had nearly forgotten what it even felt like to be excited by a man after all these years living in fear of them. Perhaps that is part of Podrick’s appeal, for Sansa knows he would sooner fall on his own sword than harm a lady. He is a safe bet, but one that still manages to intrigue her.

And when she drifts off to sleep at last, her dreams are fraught with a dark-eyed knight who can do all  _sorts_ of things with that stumbletongue of his. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If there's any interest in this at all I might expand it a bit because I'm tempted to make it into smut :P.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's been a year since I wrote this little one shot, which started as a prompt I received for Podrick/Sansa holding hands :) I've gotten a couple of requests on tumblr to continue it and always wanted to try my hand at Podsa smut. Since this is such a rarepair I wanted to contribute some content to it! It's obviously been awhile since I've written for this pairing, and months since I've written at all so I apologize if this is rusty. It's unbeta'd, but a labor of love since I adore these two so much. Happy reading!

 

“Awful storm out today, My Lady,” Brienne reports, peering grimly through the window. “There’ll be no drilling the soldiers all afternoon. The snow is too heavy.”

“Mm,” Sansa hums. She’s distracted by the letters littering her desk, the candle that’s almost burned itself to nothing on its little brass holder. Unable to sleep, she spent much of the past evening reading and answering correspondence, reviewing orders and reports. It was exhausting work, and after an arduous night thus occupied she’d hoped for a more diverting day. Sansa keeps herself busy whenever possible, after all, applying her mind to every menial task she can find.

She had presided as Lady of Winterfell for nearly a year, and in that time there had been no shortage of work that required her attention. But tiring as it was, Sansa had been grateful for the burdens of her command. The alternative was to let her imagination wander, and left to its own devices, her mind often strays to darkness.

So with Jon back at Winterfell, she is more than happy to share his duties. Her brother has a war to wage, battles to plan, strategy to discuss. And, as rumor would have it, a Targaryen queen to bed. So Sansa retains the role of running their house, of seeing that everyone is clothed and fed, even with the King in the North back in his castle.

Yet on some days, Sansa finds that even these responsibilities are not sufficient to distract her busy mind.

Ramsay’s last words to her had proven true, in the end—she is unable to forget him, to move beyond the terror that tormented her every day and night she passed as his wife. In the quiet moments when there is neither work nor conversation to occupy her mind, the thoughts march in—memories with edges sharp enough to rend her heart in two.

The phantom of Ramsay’s touch lingers still, a knife in her gut that she can’t jerk loose. The prospect of staying walled up in her room while the storm rages without—nothing but her thoughts to keep her company—is nearly unbearable. Sansa had hoped for a walk to the godswood, perhaps a morning ride with Arya after they’d broken their fast. Even reading in the library with their strange new tenant, Samwell Tarly, is a more attractive alternative to her loneliness.

But more than anything, Sansa hopes she might run across _him_.

Since their encounter in the crypts, she’s found herself in the company of Podrick Payne with growing frequency. Sometimes they stroll about the castle, Sansa’s gloved hand resting in the crook of his arm. At her urging, he regales her with tales of his travels with Brienne, and even though Sansa suspects he embellishes the stories to his own advantage, she can’t help smiling at the image of Podrick fighting valiantly on horseback like a proper knight. At supper she often invites him to dine with her family, a little thrill alighting in her heart every time she glances up to find him shyly watching her over the table. And her sudden and ardent interest in observing the soldiers at practice in the yard has little to do with her concern for Winterfell’s defenses. A certain squire in a crimson surcoat catches her eye from the balcony every time. 

Even Jon caught wind of her little infatuation, going so far as to tease her about it over breakfast upon his return.

“Sansa and the squire,” he’d chided her, smiling good-naturedly over his eggs. “I leave the North for one journey and you’re taking up with Podrick bloody Payne.”

“Well, he’s no Dragon Queen,” Sansa returned pointedly, oozing politeness. “But he’s good to me.”

Jon had colored at that, following Sansa’s eyes across the room to Daenerys Targaryen, who was looking lovely in a coat whiter than snow, sipping delicately at a glass of wine. She was a good match for Jon, Sansa had decided. Stern at times, and outspoken for one so small and so out-of-place in the North. But she was brave too, and kind. Kind above all. Kind like Podrick.

The idea of seeing him makes Sansa giddy, a sense of anticipation that had been absent since the early days in King’s Landing when she still believed in chivalry and romance. When she was still young and naïve.

She is not so young now, though; and naivete is no excuse for the way her heart pounds at the remembered warmth of Podrick’s hand in hers. It is foolish to be so besotted. She is a woman grown and a bride twice over, a lady of her house. Sansa’s days of being a blushing, innocent maiden feel like they’re from another lifetime, a life where her dreams are still happy and the walls of Winterfell still feel like home.

But then, perhaps that is part of Podrick’s allure. She can still recall his youth, awkward and gangly; but he’d grown out of his stutter and into a valiant young man. A knight in all but name, the man who crossed the realm to find her. To protect her. He is safe and solid, and being with him draws her closer to the girl she left behind, the girl she thought died forever when she became Lady Bolton.

Sansa had never thought to want a man again, not after Joffrey, not after Ramsay. And she _was_ content with the notion that a man might never touch her again. Until she wasn’t.

It bothers her now, burning like a festering sore—the thought that she may never know the comfort of a good man’s embrace, never feel the caress of a lover. This cannot be her lot in life: to have been forced into two marriages she didn’t desire, for both to end in violence. Her life might not be like one of the songs, but she can try and write herself a happier ending.

Ramsay was right. He had not died that day, not even when his hounds had shredded him like so much parchment. He lives in her still, but Sansa longs to banish him, to replace the darkness he planted in her soul with something lighter. 

Dismissing Brienne, she sits back thoughtfully in her chair. What was it Podrick said to her in the crypts that day? That he hoped his company might bring her comfort. Perhaps it’s time to put that to the test.

* * *

 

Her resolve begins to fail her by the time Podrick answers the summons to her chamber. It was one thing to _imagine_ what she planned to ask of him. But the act itself is another matter entirely. Sansa lacks the confidence of women like Margaery Tyrell, and she hasn’t even the experience to know exactly what it is she wants from Podrick. She knows only what she wants to _feel_ —better, stronger, and less alone.

When her handmaiden steps into her room to announce Podrick’s arrival, Sansa can only nod, dread and doubt constricting her throat and drying her mouth.

The young man steps inside awkwardly, his bootfalls echoing on the flagstones in the quiet.

“My Lady,” he greets her, a curious note in his voice. But it is a voice she knows well, a soothing voice, and when the door thuds shut behind her handmaiden, leaving them alone together, Sansa rallies the courage to speak.

“Thank you for seeing me today, Podrick.” She lifts her chin, folding her hands before her. “I’ve a matter of some importance to discuss with you.”

“I’m at your service,” he returns instantly. That was Podrick, ever dutiful, ever obliging. But then, he’d never been obligated to serve his liege or lady in the way Sansa was about to request.

“Good,” she manages, moving her hands behind her back to hide their trembling. Now that she has him here, she hasn’t the slightest idea of what to say, how to broach the subject without seeming like some lunatic or Flea Bottom flesh-peddler.

 _Come on_ , Sansa urges herself, frustration growing. She’s faced larger fears than this. Why is it so difficult to simply tell him what she wants? She’s often had trouble being direct, most likely the result of years of training at Septa Mordane’s strict orders always to be polite and ladylike, never abrasive or demanding.

Podrick shifts his weight from one foot to another where he stands some feet away from her, looking uncomfortable. She can count on one hand the number of times they’ve been truly alone together, and never in her chamber like this. He’s nervous, too, she realizes. The thought eases her fears somewhat. Despite being slightly older and undoubtedly having more experience than she, Podrick is still unsure of himself in the presence of a lady.

 _Experience_. That gives her an idea.

“Podrick, whenever I was married to Lord Tyrion he would often entertain his guests with a story,” she begins, dropping her hands to her sides and taking a step toward him. “A story about you, and a . . . present he bought you. To show his gratitude for your valor at the Blackwater.”

At first he is confused, his face blank as his mind rummages for the memory. And then it hits him, his eyes widening dramatically, mouth falling open.

“M-my Lady, I didn’t _ask_ Lord Tyrion for such a-a visit. I only—”

 “I know,” Sansa assures him, raising a hand to quiet his sputtering explanations. “I only wish to confirm. Podrick, have you lain with a woman before?”

He pauses, evidently taken aback by the question.

“Well, yes,” he admits, clearing this throat loudly. “There were a few of them, actually. But yes.”

Sansa might smile if she weren’t so nervous. His bashful honesty is more endearing than ever, and a pleasant tingle tiptoes up her spine, anticipation building.

“And did you like it? I mean to say, did it make you happy?” she asks, crossing the room to stand before him.

Podrick is shamefaced as he drops his gaze.

“Yes, My Lady. It did.”

 _And I hear tell you made the women_ _even happier_. Sansa inhales deeply, steeling herself for the question she’s truly been meaning to ask.

“Then would you like to do it again?”

Silence. For a moment neither says anything as Podrick blinks at her in disbelief, eventually taking an affronted step back.

“What? Where? Do you mean to - to send me a brothel?” His head shakes, voice rising. “My Lady, if I have offended you in some way, please—”

“No,” Sansa interjects quickly, following his retreat and extending a shaking a hand to his forearm. “ _No_. Podrick. I meant . . .” She trails off, doubt returning. Perhaps this is a silly idea after all. Who’s to say that Podrick would even _agree_ to such a proposition? And even if he did, what would he think of her afterward? What kind of noblewoman asks such things of her people? Podrick’s face softens at her apparent distress, and he covers her hand with his own, his warm, brown eyes finding hers.

“What is it, My Lady?”

“Sansa,” she murmurs, her trembling going still as he rubs a thumb in slow circles over the back of her hand. “Please, call me Sansa.”

“Sansa.” 

“I – I meant _me_ ,” she explains haltingly. “I was asking if you would . . . If you would lie with me.” It takes all her courage not to look away when she’s finished speaking, to keep hold of Podrick’s gaze. To his credit, he doesn’t turn away either, though she can see his distress in the stiffness of his jaw, the way his throat bobs on a swallow.

“Me? You want _me_? Why?”

“You know of my past, Podrick. You know about Ramsay, how he . . . hurt me. I want to move past it, but I cannot. I’ve never in my life been with a man I _choose_. A man I care for.” Her voice drops to a whisper, and an encouraging squeeze of Podrick’s hand urges her to continue. “Or who cares for me. So I’d like to. Just once.”

 “You care for _me_ ,” he marvels, more an observation than a question.

“I do.”

“My La—Sansa,” he catches himself. “You honor me, truly.  But you do not know what you ask. You’re Lady of Winterfell, a highborn lady, a beautiful woman. I’m only a squire. A poor one, at that. And—”

“I know what I ask, Podrick,” she cuts in. “I understand it all. Your station, your titles, none of that matters to me now. Do _you_ want me?”

His expression sobers, and when he speaks again his voice is lower, cut with an edge of seriousness.

“I – Yes. Very much. To tell it true, I’ve thought of little else these past weeks.” He smiles at her then, a shy smile that dimples his cheeks and crinkles the corners of his dark eyes. It’s the happiest Sansa has ever seen him look, a happiness she can feel reflected in her own smile. “Only … I never imagined you could feel the same about me.”

“I do,” she murmurs, voice thick, a wave of relieved happiness breaking over her. But with that joy comes the fear of losing it. Fear of embarrassing herself, of balking at the last moment, of hurting Podrick and alienating one of the only friends left to her.

“I should tell you,” she adds quietly. “I’m no maiden, but I still don’t _know_ what to do.”

She pauses, registering Podrick’s confusion. “I don’t know how it _ought_ to be between a man and a woman. When it’s good and right. I don’t know how to do it.”

The tension in the squire’s face relaxes at her words, and he raises a hand to her cheek.

“Don’t worry over that. I know how. I mean, I can show you,” he offers, standing up a little straighter. “If you like.” 

“You mean like a teacher? Like how Lady Brienne practices fighting with you?”

Podrick shrugs at the suggestion, a glint of mischief in his eye.

“I don’t think she would appreciate the analogy, but yes. Like sparring practice.”

The thought of Brienne’s scandalized reaction to her arrangement with Podrick is enough to make Sansa laugh, her worries and reservations falling away.

“Let’s hope you’ve more skill at this than at sparring, then,” she quips, prompting a snort of amusement from Podrick.

“I do,” he says, and something in the confidence of his answer, the arch of his brow, throws Sansa off balance. She finds her gaze tethered to his, feels that tether shortening, drawing her closer until her chest grazes his.

Podrick holds his breath at the contact, his posture going rigid as if he’s wary of spooking her like a doe in the forest. It’s only his eyes that move, catching on her lips, an expression of longing betraying the content of his thoughts. His stare feels heavy at her mouth, a pleasant weight anchoring her to the earth, to the present.

Sansa opts to move first, raising shaking hands to rest on his leather-clad shoulders. He’s warm beneath her palms, a heat she can sense even through the layer of his gambeson, and when her eyes fall to his lips she fancies that they must be warm, too. She and Podrick are of a height with one another, and it would be easy for her to lean in and kiss him. So she does.

A grunt of surprise escapes him at the first press of her lips, but Podrick recovers quickly, angling his head to arrange his mouth over hers. At first Sansa is clumsy and unsure, having had no real practice at kissing; but the meeting of their lips—however awkward—carries a jolt of heat that blooms out through her limbs like sinking into the hot spring. It’s a novel sensation, one of rightness and safety, but of pleasure, too. She feels taut and energized and tingly all over, her chest too small to contain the swell of emotion that’s building inside her. _This is what it’s meant to be like, kissing someone_ , she thinks. This dizzy, breathless elation mixed with relief, a need satisfied.

There’s a sliver of fear in her still, an alarm that struggles to sound in the back of her mind at the vulnerability, the intimacy of touch. But they’re _Podrick’s_ hands holding her face like it’s something precious, Podrick’s lips moving gently on hers, his every touch laced with affection and tenderness that soothe her skittish spirit like a draught of milk of the poppy.  

Her hands slide from his shoulders down to his chest, pushing herself back to catch her breath. Podrick’s exhale is loud in the silence when she breaks the kiss, his breath gusting cool against the wet of her lips. When his eyes find hers they’re different than before, the open innocence of Podrick Payne, the loyal squire, replaced with Podrick Payne, the _man_.

She’d thought seeing him like that, all serious focus and attention and _want_ , would frighten her. But it’s excitement she feels instead, and a want of her own as she leans in again, her eyes falling shut at the welcome of his lips.

Podrick opens them to her, his tongue skating along the seam of her lips in entreaty. Sansa can taste the dark ale he likes with his breakfast when she lets him in, sliding her tongue hesitantly against his. It is at once familiar and frighteningly new—the taste she recognizes, and the act she doesn’t. The deepening kiss has her belly fluttering, pulse racing. She can’t say if she’s doing it right, but Podrick seems pleased enough, his hands traversing a meandering path from her face down lower, eventually halting at the curve of her waist. Sansa’s own hands are restless between them. She wants to touch him, to feel him, to hold him like he’s holding her.

She’d enjoyed the feel of his hands on her face so she reaches up for his, testing the stubbly roughness of his cheeks before her fingers find his hair. Sansa has often admired Podrick’s hair, thick and dark, always a mess and damp with snowfall. It’s soft in her hands, and he groans faintly into her mouth when her fingernails scrape over his scalp. It’s a peculiar thing to feel his voice as she hears it, to sense his urgency when his hands tug at her waist until their bodies are flush together.

The more they touch the less she finds herself thinking about her next move. It’s easier to go by feel, to follow Podrick’s unspoken cues, tilting her head in sync with his, slipping her lips between and around his own. He’s a lovely kisser, she decides, even if her frame of reference is rather lacking. Sansa has only the feigned courtly gesture of Joffrey’s kiss to go by. The fatherly affection of Petyr Baelish, undercut with a sinister possessiveness. And Ramsay, Ramsay who had only ever sought her pain and fear.

Podrick is unlike any of them. His kisses are as warm as the sun over Blackwater Bay, his embrace as safe and sturdy as castle walls, but never so confining. It feels like a first, the sort of kiss she’d daydreamed about when she was young and unafraid, her head full of songs. Podrick makes her feel she’s living one for real—the innocent maiden and wanton temptress at once.

And Podrick, she finds, is tempting, too. The hardness of his arousal is pronounced where it presses between her hips, but he doesn’t draw her attention there, still holding himself in careful check, his hands clutching desperately at her sides but never dipping lower. It is precisely this restraint that makes her desire him all the more—the purity of his intentions, the effort behind his self-control, and the comforting knowledge that he’d never, ever harm her. Sansa wants to show him how much that means, to reward his gentleness. And there’s a part of her, too, that wonders: If he can kiss her with such finesse, what _else_ can he do?

She untwines her fingers from the fine locks of his hair and pulls back, a little reluctant to move away. Podrick’s eyes are lidded and hazy, his kiss-reddened lips curling into a boyish grin when she looks at him. But when she wriggles free of his arms the smile falters, his dazed expression sobering.

“Was that alright?” he asks quickly. “Did I hurt you? Or—”

“It was lovely. It was perfect,” Sansa assures him. “I only – I want . . .” She trails off, unsure of how to put words to the desire. She wants _him_ , more of him, all of him. She wants to graduate from his kisses—sweet as they are—to something more. But the words stick in her throat, and Podrick seems only to be more perturbed by her fumbling.

“We needn’t continue. I can leave now, if you’d like,” he says already making to back toward the door. “I’ll do nothing unless you wish it, Sansa. I promise.”

“I wish . . .” Her words halt his retreat, and he stands watching from a few paces away as she fortifies her courage. _It’s now or never._

Sansa’s hands meet behind her back, finding the satin ribbon fastening her dress and pulling it loose. The fabric hisses against the sleek of the satin as the lacings go slack, the neckline of her dress drooping down off her shoulders. It takes hardly any movement to shrug her arms free of it, letting it fall past her chest, her hips, pooling at her feet with a soft whoosh.

“I wish a great many things, Podrick,” she finishes finally. “Will you give them to me?”

At first Podrick can only gape at her, his awestruck eyes pouring over her form from top to toe. She hardly ever bothers with corsets anymore, so she’s in nothing but her smallclothes and slippers as she stands before him, bared to the waist. To his credit, Podrick seems not even to notice her scars, leftover relics of Ramsay’s cruelty. Instead his gaze is reverent, and his scrutiny makes her feel pretty, womanly and bold. And not only to _feel_ those things, Sansa decides. She _is_ bold, for only a bold woman would take this risk, to step beyond the suffering of her past and toward the happiness her future might offer. To cast her modesty and artifice aside and ask another to accept her as she is, flaws and all.

Podrick gulps visibly at her invitation, shaking his head as though he can’t believe his own good fortune.

“I’d give my own life right now if you wanted it, My Lady. You’re beautiful.” Sansa doesn’t correct his use of her title this time, charmed by his words in spite of herself. He’s good at this, she realizes—at romance. As he crosses back to her in two, long strides, Sansa chews her lip between her teeth, repressing the giggle that threatens to bubble up from her throat.

He catches her about the hips, dipping his head to kiss her again. She smiles against his mouth, exulting in his embrace. It’s exhilarating to feel him against her bare skin, the almost-painful drag of his studded gambeson over her teats a stark reminder of her nakedness. Podrick’s mouth lingers only briefly on hers before trailing to her cheek, her jaw, her throat. The rough of his stubble tickles there and she shivers, wrapping her arms around his back and holding him fast against her.

“Tell me what you want,” he mouths into the crook of her neck. “Please.”

“You,” Sansa breathes, dropping her head back to expose her neck to his lips, all her doubt and apprehension forgotten. “Touch me, Podrick. Show me.”

True to form, Podrick sets to his given task with enthusiasm and without delay. His mouth slips from her neck, marking a path of kisses over her collarbone and down her chest, his lips encircling an aching nipple. The first swipe of his tongue makes her gasp, his mouth hot and soft on her tender flesh.

Podrick stills at the sound, peering up to gauge her response. Sansa can feel more than see him grin at the confirmation of pleasure that must be written all over her face. Encouraged, he covers her other breast with his hand, kneading it until the pink tip is pebbled tight, every brush of his palm making her pant and arch toward him. It’s a marvel that something so simple can be so _good_ , and when he teases her swollen nipple with a hint of his teeth the corresponding pulse of sensation between her legs steals her breath.

Sansa squeezes her thighs together against the fluttery feeling, suddenly anxious for Podrick to venture _there_ instead. Already her smalls are nearly sodden with arousal. She might be embarrassed about it had she the clarity of mind to worry. But with Podrick’s skillful mouth and hands to distract her she can do nothing but feel. She _wants_ him to see, wants him to know how she longs for him, to feel his sword-calloused fingers working inside her with that same meticulous attention he directs to practicing combat or polishing his armor.

But she doesn’t tell him so. It’s another pleasant surprise when Podrick seems to sense her thoughts on his own, his hand spanning down her belly until he cups the mound between her legs. Sansa’s breath hisses in through her teeth, the moment of contact a welcome delight.

Even with her smallclothes between them the pressure of his touch ignites a spark, her hips shifting forward to rub herself against his hand. Podrick releases her breast with a smack of lips, dark eyes rapt on her face.

“I’m going to kiss you _here_ , now,” he murmurs, a gentle squeeze of his hand signaling his intent.

“There?” Sansa asks, unable to keep the doubt from her voice. She trusts him, of course, but it’s an odd thing he’s proposing. She wanted him to touch her there, yes. But with his mouth?

“Here,” he confirms, this time with a firm pat of his hand that makes her quiver. She’d never heard of such a thing, but the idea of Podrick’s lips and tongue exploring her most intimate places is not an unwelcome one. So she bobs her head in assent, watching as he sinks to his knees before her.

His hands rest at her hips to start, his eyes flitting up to hers as he ducks forward to press an open-mouthed kiss between her thighs. Sansa can’t help the sound that escapes her lips, not when the press of his tongue is hot through the thin material of her smallclothes. She staggers on her feet, closing her eyes against the intimacy of his stare. It’s a little too much, watching him as he mouths her, as he watches _her_ with a mixture of lust and tenderness.

Without really thinking about it she finds herself grinding against him, rutting shamelessly on his open mouth. It’s unlike anything she’s ever felt, the wet warmth, the growing friction, and she actually whines in protest when Podrick sits back, looking decidedly pleased with himself.

“I’m going to take this off.” Sansa can only nod impatiently, her hands joining his in shoving the last bit of her clothing down and out of the way. “Step out,” Podrick instructs when the garment settles at her feet.

In any other circumstance his directions would almost certainly bother her, strike her as bossy, even. But he’d agreed to teach her, hadn’t he? And Sansa finds it unexpectedly enticing to see this side to Podrick, confident and assured, taking the lead when ordinarily he is the most dutiful of followers. She’s eager to obey his every instruction, hungry for the feel of his mouth on her again.

With her smallclothes gone she’s naked before him, and Podrick runs his hands up and down the backs of her thighs, his eyes lingering on the thatch of copper curls between them.

“Put your leg over my shoulder,” he orders, tugging behind her left knee. Sansa complies, pushing past the moment of panic at situating herself in so vulnerable and shameless a position. With her leg hooked around Podrick’s right shoulder she is completely open to him, his every breath tickling against her achingly tender flesh.

“You have a pretty cunt, Sansa,” he whispers, his lips just barely grazing her as he speaks. She can’t think of a thing to say to that, the filthy word and tease of contact blanking her mind entirely.

By the time Podrick finally touches her she’s nearly keening with want. The first probing sweep of his tongue is enough to make her knee wobble, but his hands move to her arse, his grip firm and strong, supporting her weight. As he drags his tongue up the slit of her – her _cunt_ , Sansa marvels at what a fool she’s been. All this time in Podrick’s acquaintance, from King’s Landing, to the Wall and here at Winterfell, for _years_ she’d overlooked him. _A boy_ , she’d thought. _A silly, clumsy boy who couldn’t sit a horse or wield a sword._

How little those things seem to matter as his stubble scrapes against her thigh on the tilt of his face, angling himself even closer as he laps at her with the flat of his tongue. She’d gladly take _this_ over any feat of horsemanship or fighting prowess, and there is nothing clumsy in the soft purse of his lips as he seals them around the nub of sensitive nerves at the top of her cunt. When he suckles there, the pleasure is so exquisite that she cries out, her fingers knotting tightly in his hair.

Sansa wonders what he must think of her, writhing against his sweet mouth, moaning at every flick of his tongue and suck of his lips. She must seem as slatternly as the pleasure house whores who taught him how to do this. Perhaps she is. But it’s so tiresome, being good all the time. Minding her duty. She wants to lose control.

She’s halfway to madness already with the way he’s licking and supping at her cunt, at the obscene sounds of it, the sight of him on his knees for her, worshipping like a pious man at the Maiden’s feet. She doesn’t feel a maiden now. More like the Stranger, an unrecognizable, wild woman who sobs out Podrick’s name as he lashes his tongue over her again and again. His responding groan vibrates through her flesh, throwing her headlong over the peak of her pleasure until she’s seeing white, trembling violently in his arms.

It’s over in a few blissful moments and her fingers loosen in his hair, heart pounding loudly in her ears. Sansa can feel Podrick’s heaving breaths on the inside of her thigh when he pulls back, easing her leg from his shoulder. Back on her own two feet, she can hardly stand. Her muscles are deliciously slack, legs weak and shaky. But Podrick is there to help her again, as he always is. Even as he scrambles gracelessly to stand, his arms reach out to her, hands closing behind her elbows to brace her.

When they look at one another Sansa can feel her cheeks burning with embarrassment, absurd as that seems after the act they’ve just shared. It was wonderful, perfect, better than she could ever have imagined even in her most fevered of daydreams. The only trouble is that she has no idea what to do _now_ , what to say. A simple _thank you_ seems woefully unequal to what he’s given her, and yet she doesn’t know how to reciprocate. She supposes she could ask him. He’s meant to be instructing her, after all. But Sansa is coming to understand that Podrick is a great deal more than that. More than a squire, a guard, a friend, a teacher. She feels for him, deeply and sincerely. And those feelings lend a pressure to the moment, a willingness to please him, a wariness of doing or saying the wrong thing.

For his part, Podrick can only smile at her, looking utterly smitten. His eyes are glazed over, mouth and chin wet and shining with the evidence of her arousal. It stirs something deep in her belly, the carnal reminder of his efforts to please her.

“I . . . thank you, Podrick,” she says finally, deciding even this is better than saying nothing at all.

He scoffs at her, his smile only widening.

“You needn’t thank me, Sansa. I like it. Giving you pleasure, I mean.”

She nods thoughtfully, her steely blue eyes levelling him.

“Then perhaps I might show my gratitude in other ways. I did ask you to lay with me. Yet you’ve only knelt.”

He chuckles at that, his contagious joy shaking her nerves loose once again.

“My Lady is demanding,” he scolds playfully, taking her by the hand. Before Sansa can reply he turns and leads her toward the featherbed in the corner of her chamber. She follows him readily, marveling at how rapidly her desire returns, how something she once feared and dreaded can excite her so—if only with Podrick.

At his gesture toward the bed, Sansa climbs in first, the soft furs of her coverlet familiar against her bare flesh as she gets comfortable. He pauses to survey the scene—Sansa naked and reclining on her elbows in the bed, waiting. The pink of his tongue emerges to taste her essence on his lips, the strain in his leathers showing how he wants her.

She returns his gaze, fingering the plush of the furs anxiously while she waits. Her breath gusts in a faint cloud of steam between them, the chamber having long gone cold with the forgotten, dying fire in the grate. _Podrick’s skin will keep me warm_ , she muses, watching as he yanks his boots off at the heel.

He doesn’t even bother with the many and varied buckles on his intricate gambeson, opting instead to pull it wholly over his head still-fastened, the dark roughspun shirt he wears underneath going with it. In only his breeches Sansa can see he’s got a warrior’s build, thickly muscled arms, a sturdy chest cut with definition, here and there a scar. _He earned those on the road_. _Following Brienne. Looking for me._

Her chest clenches at the thought. The things this man has done for her. All her life she longed for exactly this—a man with the strength to protect her and the soft heart to love her, too. She’d spent her girlhood fancying princes and knights. Joffrey Baratheon and Loras Tyrell, hoping one day they’d complete her song. But she’d written the verses all wrong, searching for her hero in the darkness until she’d grown hard and cold. No one could protect her, she’d thought, so she had to protect herself. She’d ceased believing in heroes long ago. Yet here he was: Podrick Payne, her very own Florian.

With his leathers unlaced he peels them off easily enough, revealing the thick length of him for the first time. Sansa tries not to stare. A lady ought not stare this way, but her Florian is . . . notably well-endowed. Podrick follows her eyes, smirking at her admiration.

She folds her legs up onto the bed when he clambers in to join her, eager to touch him, to feel the heat of his flesh on hers, to kiss him again. His smile is kind, looming over hers as he braces above her with his hands and knees. Sansa reaches up to comb his sweat-damp hair from his forehead caressing his face and guiding it lower toward her own.

He kisses her deeply, sloppily, and Sansa can taste herself on his tongue, strange and erotic. She kisses him back in earnest, throwing her arms around his neck and opening her legs to invite his body nearer.

He lays himself down over her, the planes of his flesh hot and sweat-slick on hers. She’s grateful for the warmth in the cold of her room, for the weight of him bearing her down into the mattress. His manhood is pinned between them, hard and conspicuous against the throbbing seem of her thighs. She’s wet for him, again, and when he slips a hand between them to touch her there he hums appreciatively into her mouth.

Podrick is not ungentle but there’s an urgency to him now as he strokes her with his fingers, an urgency she understands all-too-well. He’s teaching her what it is to crave a man, to hunger for him like a plate a lemon cakes after a day of fasting. Sansa finds his touch is just as sweet, and she arches into him, desperate for more.

As Podrick works first one and then another finger inside her, it occurs to Sansa that it doesn’t feel much like a lesson. Not that any of it had, in truth. He isn’t showing or teaching so much as _giving_. His hands are deft and knowing, seeking out the place inside her that yearns to be found, wracking her body with pleasure as easy as turning a key in a lock, and all the while he’s kissing her, collecting her every gasp and sigh.

She’s almost disappointed when he’s the one to pull back for breath, but when she opens her eyes to look at him his expression is suddenly serious, eyes burning.

“You’ve no idea how lovely you truly are are,” he avows. “Every bit of you.” He kisses his way down her body as if to emphasize his point, his lips finding every scar that mars her flesh and lingering there. The softness of his touch imbues each with a new memory—one of tenderness and care, as if he could bear her pain and fear himself and relieve her of them forever.

Her vision blurs with tears, and all at once she is too overwhelmed to speak. Sansa has been loved by others, and she is thankful for every one. For her mother, sitting up late to talk with her by the fire and teaching her to sew beautiful gowns worthy of any court. For Father, with his gruff affection and stony wisdom. For Robb, teaching her to sit her horse, for his tight hugs that smelled of leather and the ale he snuck from the kitchens after supper. For Rickon, who’d been braver than his years, and whose smile could thaw the coldest winter’s day. For Bran, who is so different now, but still her little brother who loved to climb and laugh and play. For Arya, sweet, reckless Arya, as wild as her wolf and twice as loyal. For Jon, who’d shed his own blood to win their home back. Sansa loved them all, and she knew they loved her too. She’d carry their love with her always, no matter what the war might bring.

But family bonds are forged in blood, immutable and true. Podrick’s care is something else, something precious that she’s never had before. All her newfound lust is tempered now, mixed with something deeper and more potent. When Podrick works his way back up her body, his eyes boring into hers again, Sansa knows he feels it, too. She can see it in the softness of his face, can feel it when he finally pushes inside her with the first drive of his hips.

He slides in with ease, slick and supple as she is, and when he seats himself deep their breath mingles in a shared gasp. He pauses to gather his bearings, dropping a quick kiss to her forehead. He’s trembling, Sansa realizes, his arms shaking almost imperceptibly where they barricade her on both sides. But when he moves within her there is no hesitance to his rhythm. The pleasure is instant, the head of his cock reaching deliciously deep.

Out of everything thus far Sansa decides she likes _this_ the best. Podrick fills her up wholly, giving her every inch of himself with each divine stroke. She likes how they fit together _just_ so, how she can feel his hot flesh along hers _everywhere_. It had been good when he kissed between her legs, of course. But this way she can kiss him back, can hold him while he holds her.  This way, they can share in their pleasure, every pump of his hips driving little whimpers from her lips, the velvet tightness of her cunt around him sucking him deeper.

Sansa crosses her ankles behind him, digging her heels into his back on every thrust as if she might hold him in. If she could she’d keep him here forever, bask in the bliss of their joining, of _making love_. She’d never known it could be like this—the reciprocal exchange of pleasure so intense that everything else falls away, a building lightness that obscures the edges of reality so she can’t tell where her flesh ends and Podrick’s begins. His thick heat sheathing inside her again, again. The weight of his body on hers with the motion, his mouth on her neck, planting sucking kisses along her throat, her collarbone, her shoulder, wherever he can reach with each stroke of his hips. Her grip on his own shoulders tightens as her ecstasy reaches its crisis, her nails sinking mercilessly into his muscled back as she writhes beneath him.

She comes with a little cry, her cunt seizing around Podrick until he jerks away with a sudden haste. Sitting back on his knees, he takes his manhood in one hand, the other gripping her hip hard enough to sting. Sansa watches with breathless interest as his fist slips up and down his shaft, his breath coming in jagged little gasps.

“Sansa,” he murmurs, his voice a broken sob as he finishes, slumping forward and spilling his seed on the coverlet.

His forehead is beaded with sweat where it rests against hers but Sansa doesn’t mind, her heart still racing from the exertion of their coupling, nearly bursting with affection. She enfolds him in a hug as their breathing slows, counts his heartbeats against her chest until they’re calm and measured. She wriggles away from the damp spot on the furs so Podrick can lie down beside her, his head coming to rest on the swell of her breast, arm flung lazily across her belly.

The quiet in the chamber is disturbed only by the faint and constant howling of the winter winds outside the castle. The storm is picking up, just as Brienne had predicted. Tucked in Podrick’s embrace Sansa hardly notices, content to bask in the pleasant afterglow of their lovemaking, to listen to the comforting repetition of his breaths.

She'd sought Podrick out for help, for companionship, a distraction. Now it seems she might have gotten more than she bargained for, and she's glad for it. It had confused her before, Jon’s new romantic entanglement with Daenerys. _Why now?_ she’d wondered, catching a glimpse of her brother's hand laying protectively over the small of the little queen’s back as they stepped into the castle yard together for the first time. They are at war, a war they might never win. And if they do, there will be Cersei Lannister to contend with. So Sansa had thought it silly, irresponsible even, to get involved, to be emotionally compromised at a time like this.

She understands it better now, lying here with Podrick, finding comfort in his closeness. He's given her what she needed and then some today. She feels safer with him here beside her, more hopeful somehow. Love, after all, is worth fighting for, and fighting hard.

 “Are you pleased, My Lady?” he asks, after a time, a note of smug victory in his voice that makes her grin.

“Yes, quite.”

“Good.”

“There is one thing, though.”

Podrick rises up on an elbow, head cocked to the side with curiosity.

“That thing you did. With your mouth. Might I do the same for you? You know, kiss you. There.”

 “You might,” he concedes, chuckling at her eagerness. “But that’s a lesson for another day.

Sansa pouts, crossing her arms in exaggerated disappointment.

“But in the meantime,” he consoles her, his hands finding her legs, slipping between to part her knees. “There’s one very important thing I’ve learned from Lady Brienne.”

“Which is?”

He glances up to meet her eye, winking mischievously before he drops his head to kiss her thigh.

“Lots and lots of practice.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free drop a comment if you enjoyed it as I'm still pretty iffy about this one haha. Thank you so much for reading :D


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